


It Comes Back, In the End

by elle_nic



Series: To Let Love Leave You [2]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Kissing, she gets the girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:21:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22934746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_nic/pseuds/elle_nic
Summary: She’d be reminded of Andréa all day at all moments and then she’d return home resigned to the fact that it would all start again the next morning.Rinse and repeat.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Series: To Let Love Leave You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1558969
Comments: 27
Kudos: 174





	It Comes Back, In the End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [charlottepriestly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottepriestly/gifts).



> Here's the sequel that I vaguely alluded to that one time. This one is dedicated to charlottepriestly (yes, _that_ charlottepriestly) who has been feeling rough the last few days. This is to cheer her up, because god knows she's a ray of absolute sunrise. El amor de mi, darling xx

It didn’t pass as soon as she needed it to. Love seemed to cling to her no matter how hard she tried to shake it off. She would wake in the morning and crave coffee and remember the smiles Andréa would deliver with it. She would get dressed and would wonder what Andréa was wearing that day. She would ride to work and would look at the seat opposite her and miss the time when Andréa would fidget there. She would ride the elevator and wish someone would ride it with her. She would get to her desk and she’d look out and wish Andréa was at her own desk. She’d be reminded of Andréa all day at all moments and then she’d return home resigned to the fact that it would all start again the next morning.

Rinse and repeat.

When Andréa started writing actual articles with a by-line for her newspaper (and wasn’t Miranda infinitely proud of her when she found that out), Miranda began to scrapbook the journey. She would cut out the articles and paste them into the blank scrapbook. She’d edit some, leave notes in the margins and with the ones that she deemed perfect, she would neatly stick a shiny golden star next to them. When Andréa wrote her first front-pager, Miranda, unable to help herself in her joy and pride, sent an anonymous bouquet of flowers to Andréa’s desk. She hoped she would be allowed this small gesture so long as Andréa didn’t know it was her. She didn’t know where to put all the love she felt.

It happened that way each time Andréa found herself on the front page. Miranda would send a bouquet of fragrant, colourful flowers, always with a single red rose hidden within it somewhere. Miranda never dared to pen any notes, knowing that Andréa would know her handwriting in an instant. So, she sent anonymous flowers for each article and allowed herself to love Andréa from a distance. For over a year, she loved silently, behind the scenes. The brunette would never believe Miranda could have loved her for long, but Miranda knew that the way she felt for Andréa had changed her. This love would not pass, and Miranda didn’t want it to either.

Her children asked questions as curious things were wont to do. Why she didn’t date and why she hadn’t married another man again. Miranda would always answer honestly.

“I don’t want to marry any more men,” she would say. And it was true, but her children caught on after a few months.

“Mom,” Caroline, newly thirteen-year-old said to her. “You can marry a chick, you know.”

“Duh, she knows that,” Cassidy piped up from behind her phone.

“Thank you for the permission, Bobbsey,” Miranda had said. She did want to marry again one day, one last time, but she was painfully aware of how much of a two-way street marriage was. It was not likely she would again be a wife.

By the time Nigel had truly settled into his role at _Men’s Runway_ and Irv had retired after catching heat from the board for his stint in Paris, Miranda had been found out. It came in a simple letter, just a single sentence and nothing more. But Miranda figured out who it was from. Andréa had also, apparently, figured the same.

_Even still?_ was the sum total of the contents of the piece of fine letter-writing paper. There was a return address and Miranda immediately penned her response. There was something more permanent about communicating this way, something that gave her a small amount of hope.

_Even still._

Her phone rang a week later to the day, almost to the hour.

“Yes?” she said, hoping to sound bored even when her chest was painfully tight.

“May I visit?” A beat of silence in which Miranda’s mind was whirring.

“You may,” she said finally.

“Perfect,” Andréa said, then the chime of her doorbell.

She was as tall as Miranda remembered, her hair was shorter, her clothes casual but stylish. She was wearing glasses.

“Hey,” she said, waving awkwardly. Miranda smiled slightly.

“Hey,” she replied.

It was several weeks more of “Hey, may I visit?” and “Yes, you may.” and the subsequent ringing of her doorbell. She’d open the door each time and Andréa would leave when she wanted to. The visits lasted longer and longer each time. The shortest one was when they discussed Paris. Andréa left and did not return or call or text for nearly two weeks.

_“Why did you send me away?”_

_“I didn’t have the facilities to speak to you about us before the luncheon the next day.”_

_“Why did you go to my hotel room after the luncheon?”_

_“I thought you were leaving. And you were.”_

_“Why did you send me flowers so often?”_

_“You know why.”_

_“I do. I want to hear you say it.”_

_“I won’t. Not because it’s no longer true.”_

_“Why? Why won’t you?”_

_“I told you once. I-… I told you once and you left me anyway. I won’t say it again. Not- Not yet.”_

_“…I have to go.”_

_“I thought you’d say that.”_

It had been a hellish fortnight for Miranda where she raged and moped and avoided her phone like the viral plague while simultaneously keeping it on her person at all times. She wondered if Andréa was as kind as she’d always perceived her to be. Maybe Miranda had created an ideal version of Andréa in her head and was being disappointed by the real deal because of her high expectations. She didn’t think Andréa cruel, but this was more pain than she felt she deserved.

“Hey,” was the rushed syllable that met Miranda’s ears as she picked up the phone. “I-… May I visit?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Miranda said evenly.

“No, no, please, I need to see you. I won’t stay long if you don’t want me to. Please.” A hard thing about being in love is wanting to give the object of your desires everything they wanted, even if you shouldn’t. Miranda was just as foolish as any other poor sod in love.

“Briefly then. After seven.” The girls would be gone by then.

“Perfect, thank you so much,” Andréa said. Then she was gone.

It took days for 7pm to come around, but not even a minute after was a knock on her door. Andréa walked in and hung up her coat after a quiet hello. They moved awkwardly to the den but Andréa did not sit.

“People I’ve dated have fallen in love with me between now and when I worked for you,” is the first sentence out of the brunette’s mouth. Miranda is not sure if she can hear another one. “No, wait, please just listen.”

“Don’t be cruel,” is all Miranda can say.

“I’m not, I promise, just…”

“Get on with it,” Miranda says tiredly.

“I think I forgot what it felt like to fall in love back. Because that only happened once in really shitty circumstances. And I got scared of doing it again so I just… went along with other people. I cared for them, I wanted them to be happy but they didn’t make me want to fall in love with them.”

“Why are you telling me this, Andréa?”

“I’m trying to say that I…” She didn’t finish the thought for several long moments. “I’m sorry I told you I didn’t belive you and walked away from you. In Paris.”

“It was very hurtful,” Miranda whispered. Andréa nodded and looked down, ashamed.

“There’s no defence for it. I can only ask that you allow me the opportunity to fix the hurt I caused,” the brunette reasons. Her voice sounds thick and Miranda realises that perhaps the woman is close to tears.

“What has changed in the two weeks we have not spoken?”

“I…” Andréa begun. She sat, wiped her hands on her trousers then stood again and began pacing. “I thought about what it would be like if it were switched,” she explained poorly.

“If what were switched?” Miranda asked, patience running thinner by the moment.

“What if _I_ said it and- and what if you had turned me away or left me after. It hurt to think about… I can’t imagine how it would’ve hurt to be treated like that. I was horrible, Miranda,” Andréa says, and Miranda is certain she can hear tears in her voice this time. But Andréa has her back to her and she can’t see her face just yet. “I don’t want to ever make you feel like your feelings aren’t important, and I did just that in such a lasting way… I’m so sorry,” she says, turning to face Miranda.

Miranda looks in her eyes. Tears, as she thought, are balancing on her lower lashes and her cheeks seem blushed in an effort not to cry. Her lip trembles slightly and her brows are pulled tight to her forehead. She seems to be withholding her emotions for Miranda’s sake. It’s that, that selflessness that Miranda knew Andréa must have possessed that makes up her mind. She would forgive Andréa anything if her apology is as sincere as this one.

“I will give you the opportunity to make it up to me,” Miranda said evenly, softly even. “If you will return the favour?”

“What?” The confusion on Andréa’s face was endearing, Miranda thought.

“I have done and said things to you that I regret. That were hurtful with the aim to hurt you. I would like to make that up to you, if you would be so kind?”

Andréa laughed. “Whatever you want, Miranda,” she said relievedly. “Anything,” she added.

“A kiss?” she asks boldly.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Andréa said, advancing quickly and sitting beside Miranda. Miranda might have thought she’d be the one with the prowess or what have you in any relationship she had imagined with Andréa. She was mistaken. Andréa cradled her face, angled her head to suit, then moved in and kissed Miranda as thoroughly as she’d ever been kissed before. Miranda wasn’t sure entirely how to describe kissing anyone let alone Andréa, but when she tried later, she thought it was like the comforting burn of a good scotch with the softness of a marshmallow (which she agrees is far too pedestrian a metaphor).

When they part after long, cathartic moments of kissing, Andréa asks earnestly, “Can we do that again?”

Miranda can only laugh and nod, leaning in for another kiss. And another. And another. Time moved sluggishly and so did they until they made proper use of the couch.

“Thank you for loving me, even when I didn’t believe you did,” Andréa says morosely in a moment of relative afterglow. It’s been a long time since Miranda was spooned by someone, but she can’t recall a time where it was more comforting to her.

“Don’t thank me,” Miranda chides gently, turning to kiss a slender neck. “Never thank me for that. It’s my pleasure,” she explains as tenderly as she can. It’s really quite tender if Andréa’s misty eyes are an indication.

“It’s definitely _our_ pleasure,” Andréa says laughingly. She kisses Miranda on her mouth again. It’s then that Miranda realises she can’t think of anything but marshmallows. She will be vexed by this later, but she’s busy being adored. Finally.

_Finally_.


End file.
